The first time I became aware 

of my body, I was 12 years old at an 
outdoor water park. I sat in an inflated 
tube, swaying back and forth in an 
obnoxiously loud wave pool with my 
sister and friends. It was a perfect day 
until it wasn’t. At one moment, my sister 
and friends had been taken elsewhere by 
the manufactured tide and I sat swaying 
along, enjoying the blazing sun on my 
face and the cool of the water on my feet. 
I was then approached by two white 
teenage boys, who I first thought were 
mistaking me for someone else. One of 
them looks at me, stifles a chuckle and 
eloquently slurs: 

“Hey, I just wanted to let you know 

my boy over here thinks you’re hot.” 

The boys erupted into a fit of laughter 

and swam away, likely never to think of 
that moment again. They were to move on 
in the world, unaware of the effect of their 
words on the women they encounter, 
unaware of its effects on me. But I sat 
there, suddenly aware of the layers of extra 
fabric clinging to my skin, embarrassed 
and choked by the polyester hijab that 
circled my face; suddenly aware of how 
ridiculous I must have looked for two 
white boys to approach me and jokingly 
tell me they thought I looked “hot.” In that 
moment, what was a perfect day turned 
into a demarcation of when I first became 
uncomfortable being a visibly Muslim 
woman in a country that valued women 
based on their appearance. I didn’t tell 
anyone about this — not my sisters, not my 
friends. I just wanted to shrivel up like my 
pruned feet in that wave pool, never to be 
seen again by anyone. 

Since then, I’ve always known 

my body, a woman’s body, a Muslim 
woman’s body, to be a complicated thing. 
And I don’t mean that in a feminist, 
body-positive way, though I am both of 
those things. What I mean is, a woman’s 
body sometimes feels like a free-for-all, a 
legislated playground that starts to feel 
like less of a body and more of a foreign 
object that does not feel in line with the 
rest of one’s being.

After that moment, I tried to minimize 

the parts of me that made me visibly 
Muslim. I no longer prayed in public and 
sometimes opted for a hoodie instead 
of a hijab. When I was in high school, I 
became obsessed with makeup because 
it was the only part of my appearance 
that I could control. Every paycheck that 
I got from my cashier job at the dreaded 
local supermarket went straight to Ulta 
and Sephora. I would watch tutorials 
and wake up two hours early for school 
just to cover my face in extravagant 
paints and powders, to look like someone 
I wanted to present to the world. When 
my mom criticized my makeup addiction 
and questioned who I was putting in all 
that extra effort for, I shot back with the 
quintessential response: “I’m doing it 
for me.” And like many women, I think 
I started to believe it. I started to believe 
that my desire to make myself more 

desirable stemmed from myself and 
was uninfluenced by external factors 
and opinions. To an extent, women do 
perform these things for themselves. It 
is a form of self-preservation to take care 
of oneself, to put meticulous care and 
effort into carefully coordinated outfits, 
perfectly manicured nails, curled and 
coated eyelashes. But I couldn’t help 
but wonder if at some point, for some 
women, did this desire stop being a 
form of self-preservation and become a 
manifestation of social expectations?

Some time in high school I was 

introduced to white feminism, which at 
the time I thought was just feminism, not 
thinking about the ways it often excluded 
women who looked like me. Feminism 
told me I should wear what I want, date 
who I want, do what I want and I loved 
it. I championed the agenda to my Arab 
and Muslim family, who told me not to 

be like those Godless Amerkaan who 
showed their bodies and slept around and 
didn’t care about their family’s reputation. 
Feminism told me all women were equal 
and that our choices were only ours to 
make. It talked about freeing the nipple 
and empowering women to strip down, 
but did nothing to empower women who 
chose to cover up. It talked about free 
access to abortion in America, but not 
about forced sterilizations and sexual 
assault in refugee camps. It talked down 
on women I knew and loved, women 
like my mother and my aunts and my 
grandmother who chose to stay at home 
and raise children, raise villages, which 
was a world of work in itself. It told me to 
make my own choices, but didn’t tell me 
what to make of the women who did not 
have access to the same choices. It didn’t 
tell me how to balance expressing my 
individuality and owning my body while 
remaining respectful to my culture and 
true to my faith.

Becoming comfortable in my skin 

is a process. For Muslim women, 
expectations of what one should be are 
drastically different for women who 
choose to wear the hijab versus those 
who don’t. In the Muslim faith, hijab is a 
commandment of God when a girl comes 
of age, as are praying, fasting, giving to 
charity, etc. However, like everything 
else in life and religion, every choice is 
a personal one and everyone’s journey 
is different. Nonetheless, by putting 
themselves on display, women who 
choose to wear the hijab are exposing 
themselves to the unwarranted and 
relentless ideals imposed on them by two 
competing sides — Western society and 
the Muslim community. 

On one end, we are being told by 

Western society: You are oppressed, and 
in order to liberate yourself, you must reject 
the restrictive notions imposed upon you 
by your community. But this liberation 
comes at a price: We will set you free, but 
at the same time, we will make you want 
to change everything about yourself that 
makes you “other.” Your Arab nose, your 
thick curly hair. We will eat up the parts 
of your culture we deem worthy. Your 
delicious food, your exotic dancing. 
We will don hijabs on scantily clad 

models on runways but scoff in pity 
when it’s a part of your everyday life. 
Almost every Arab woman I know has 
either gotten or talked about getting 
plastic surgery. Nose jobs and face lifts, 
keratin hair treatments, thinned and 
tattooed eyebrows. And the discourse 
surrounding these treatments is mostly 
positive and uplifting. It is a woman’s 
choice what to do with her body. Yes, but 
to what extent is it really that woman’s 
choice when notions of what she should 
look like are ingrained into her from the 
moment she is old enough to switch on 
the television? 

On the other end, our body is an open-

ended discussion for Muslim and Arab 
men, who drown out the sound of their 
own shortcomings with the sound of us 
messing up. They tell us our clothes are 
not modest enough and simultaneously 
shame us for not being “open-minded 
enough” and willing to bend our rules for 
their own pleasure. Elder women look at 
you in disgust in the grocery line because 
the strands falling out of your loosened 
silk hijab tell them I am American before 
I am Muslim, before I am Arab, before I 
am anything.

I’ll give you an example. Last summer, 

after returning from my study abroad 
program, I was working at a small 
Yemeni restaurant near my house. One 
day, I was serving a table of older men, 
dressed in abayas and turbans who 
looked at me a little too long when I 
brought them their appetizers. I ignored 
the feeling I got — that pit-in-the-bottom-
of-your-stomach feeling that makes you 
feel like you are on display, that sudden 
awareness of body — and continued 
doing my job, even when I saw the men 
stop my coworker to whisper something 
in her ear as she walked by. Later on that 
night, my sister, who is closer friends 
with my coworker, told me what those 
men said: They wanted my coworker to 
tell me that my shirt was too short, that 
a hijabi like me should dress better in a 
place like this where men come and are 
free to look. She was too shy to tell me in 
the restaurant and I’m glad she didn’t.

When I first put on my hijab at 9 years 

old, I was not thinking about these things. 
I was not thinking about my physical 
appearance or how I would go on to be 
perceived in the world. I wasn’t thinking 
about how the deliberate covering of 
my body would lead to an undeliberate 
uncovering of my identity in every room 
I walked through — that I would be 
judged as Muslim first, human second. 
I didn’t think about the humiliation I 
would feel at that waterpark and how 
subsequently, swimming — something I 
used to love and enjoy— would become 
something I dreaded and avoided. I was 
thinking: My mom and my sister wear it. 
I love my mom and my sister. I love God, 
and he wants me to wear it. And I never 
regretted it, never saw it as anything 
other than an extension of my identity, a 
testament to my faith in God, until that 
day at the waterpark. After that, it became 
something that clearly announced me 
as “other,” something boys would never 
find attractive, something my American 
peers would never understand or accept. I 
worried they would think I was somehow 
less educated, somehow less American 
than them, somehow more docile and 
less assertive and more passive. I don’t 
remember my first experience with 
discrimination in America; at this point 
these instances have blended into a myriad 
of little moments, microaggressions and 
blatant remarks, but I can tell you about 
the first time I became aware that my 
body was not always something that 
would feel like mine. 

To most, identity politics are known 

as a garnering of support for a political 
figure or platform that represents 
specific 
demographics, 
whether 

that be race, religion, gender, etc. In 
recent years, the relevancy of identity 
politics has increased as diversity in 
government has become much more 
important now than ever before. For 
example, the pool of 2020 Democratic 
presidential nominees was the most 
diverse the party has ever had. We 
have gotten to a point where identity 
markers have started to be seen as a 
form of virtue signaling. More often 
than not, someone is assumed to be a 
good person just because they belong 
to one or more marginalized groups. 
This strips the nuances of an individual 
and automatically assigns them a 
certain amount of morality based upon 
a few characteristics. While uplifting 
members of minority groups in politics 
is beneficial for representation, it can 
be harmful when it’s done without 
knowing a politician’s background 
and platform. Representation alone 

isn’t enough if a politician’s policies are 
harmful to their constituents. 

Take Lori Lightfoot, mayor of 

Chicago, for example. Her campaign 
was groundbreaking because she was 
a frontrunner to be the first gay, Black 
mayor of Chicago. However, while she 
was making headlines and gaining 
popularity because of this, many 
overlooked her background as a federal 
prosecutor and voted for her solely 
because of the facets of her identity, 
rather than the specific policies that 
she stands for. Consequently, her 
missteps as mayor have not been 
condemned nearly enough. In the 

most recent poll taken of her approval 
rating by Wirepoints last October, her 
approval still stands at over 60%. In 
February 2021, she spent $281.5 million 
in federal COVID-19 relief funds on the 
Chicago Police Department payroll, 
even though she had proposed a 
reduction in their budget back in 2020. 
In addition to this, she also refused 
to reduce the funding of the police 
force within Chicago Public Schools 
despite calls for her to disinvest in 
the CPD. While Lightfoot continues 
to maintain that she is only trying to 
do what is best for Chicagoans, her 
actions do anything but. After violent 

clashes between the police and Black 
Lives Matter protesters last summer 
in Chicago, it seemed to me and others 
that a positive step towards reconciling 
the tension between civilians and 
the police force would be to reduce 
their ability to inflict harm on citizens 
by defunding their operations and 
reallocating funds to social services 
and community programs. Instead, 
Lightfoot put even more money into 
the CPD, enabling them to continue 
their aggressive tactics. 

Another example of the harms 

of identity politics is current Vice 
President Kamala Harris. While it 
may be groundbreaking that she is our 
first female, Black and South Asian 
Vice President, her faults in her past 
as a “tough-on-crime” prosecutor are 
often ignored. In 2010, she sponsored 
a state truancy law as a part of her 
Truancy Project, which was designed 
to promote consistent attendance for 
young people in grade school. While the 
intent to reduce truancy in schools may 
have been well placed, the execution 
in 
the 
form 
of 
criminalization 

was 
extremely 
harmful. 
The 

implementation of this law led to the 
arrests of several parents, most of 

them being Black mothers, because 
their 
children 
were 
consistently 

absent from school due to outside 
circumstances like lack of access 
to food, resources or safe housing. 
Rather than focusing on combating the 
factors that may contribute to a lack of 
attendance in school, Harris resorted 
to unnecessarily severe punishment. 
Parents were unjustly arrested with 
little to no consideration for their 
domestic situations. Approximately 
two in five children ages two years 
and older whose parents have been 
arrested endure significant emotional 
and behavioral problems, which is 
roughly twice the rate when compared 
to children in the general population. 
From announcing her campaign for 
presidency on Martin Luther King 
Jr. Day to playing Tupac at her book 
signings, Harris seemed to publicly 
align herself with her Blackness 
through not-so-subtle cultural cues 
all 
throughout 
her 
presidential 

campaign. This comes across as 
highly performative because of her 
past in facilitating mass incarceration 
within Black communities. Despite 
her 
obvious 
pandering, 
Harris 

still garnered support from Black 

Americans 
after 
joining 
Biden’s 

campaign as the vice presidential 
nominee, which surely helped in 
their election in Nov. 2020. Even as 
vice president, she is still inflicting 
harm on entire communities. Since 
Inauguration Day in January, the 
Biden-Harris 
administration 
has 

been issuing drone strikes in Syria, 
physically harming countless civilians. 
It is important to not assume such high 
morality of politicians — or anyone 
for that matter — just because of the 
marginalized groups that they fall into.

On a personal level, I had to take 

a step back and figure out when 
heavily relying on identity politics was 
clouding my political alliances. I, like 
many others, would love to have more 
representation in government from 
people who look like me, especially 
considering that the abilities of highly 
competent politicians like Stacey 
Abrams are often overlooked because 
they belong to minority identities. 
However, we have to keep reminding 
ourselves that not all representation is 
good representation and that research 
into a politician’s platform and 
background should always be done 
before giving them our full support.

As a person of color, any type of application, 

whether it be college, job or internship applications 
are always equipped with stress, self-doubt and 
insecurity. I feel alone in academic and social 
settings at the University of Michigan, with about 
55% of the student population being white and the 
median family income being a staggering $154,000 
for the Fall 2020 undergraduate population. I, as a 
minority student who does not have the privilege 
of wealth nor whiteness, have had to endure a 
college experience overrun by feelings of imposter 
syndrome. Here at the University, I constantly feel 
the pressure of social and economic factors like race 
and social class that lead me to lose belief in myself 
academically and professionally. I dream to go to law 
school and become a lawyer, which I know will force 
me to exist within more intimidating environments 
of professionalism, whiteness and years of enhanced 
feelings of being an imposter. 

Interacting with students in my sociology, 

political science and public policy classes has 
resulted in very interesting yet uncomfortable 
conversations. It seems like almost every student 
has been interning for their local congressman 
since high school and have parents who own their 
own law firm. Comparing my background and 
experiences to others, the overwhelming sense of 
competition makes me anxious and worried about 
my future at the University and beyond due to my 
lack of experience compared to my peers. When it 
comes to discussions surrounding internships or any 
other professional opportunity, the number of white 
students who seem to have been handed positions 
because of their family’s privilege is honestly 
astounding. 

This past January, I started my application to the 

Ford School of Public Policy. Even before the start of 
my freshman year, I already knew I wanted to apply 
to this program come the winter of my sophomore 
year, and I worked my ass off both academically 
and professionally to try to secure an acceptance. I 
completed the prerequisites courses early, pursued 
internships that aligned 
with my political interests 
and became an involved 
student at the University to 
solidify that public policy 
was my passion while 
proving to admissions that 
I was a dedicated student. 
I thought what I was doing 
would be enough and that 
I would stand out among 
hundreds 
of 
applicants 

all competing for a spot 
in the 70- to 80-person 
cohort. But when talking 
to other students who 
had the same dream of 
attending the Public Policy 
School, it seemed that their experiences, grades and 
accomplishments were much more prestigious than 
mine. And when it was time to start my application, I 
needed to think of something that made me different 
from the rest of the applicants. There was an easy 
conclusion: my ethnicity. I am a Latino student at 
the University; I am a part of the mere 6.98% of the 
undergraduate population that is Latinx.

Diversity has been proven to be beneficial in the 

classroom. Whether it’s ethnicity, socioeconomic 
class or religion that sets individual students apart, 
learning in diverse environments improves students’ 
cognitive skills and critical thinking. By boosting 
an individual’s abilities and intellect, diverse 
classrooms nurture further academic success and 
innovation. More diverse classrooms not only make 
me feel more comfortable, but they also create an 
open space for dialogue regarding important issues 
affecting various cultures and ethnicities. I knew my 
ethnicity would benefit the Public Policy School’s 
cohort, but I did not want to wonder if I had only 
been accepted for the sake of the school’s diversity 
numbers. My imposter syndrome made me feel that 
my experiences and grades would not be enough 
for the acceptance email that I’ve been dreaming of 
since I learned about the Public Policy School. 

I had to come to accept that a majority of the 

students applying, on paper, most likely appeared to 
admissions as identical. So many of us are pre-law, 

political science majors waiting on an acceptance to 
the Public Policy School. Most of us are politically 
active and involved in related organizations on 
campus, and some of us naively believe we can 
become president one day. Due to this, I knew the 
one place I could truly stand out would be in the 
application essays. It felt like the three 300- to 400-
word essays would determine my future. 

After filling out basic demographic information in 

the early part of the online application, it was finally 
time to view the essay prompts. Unsurprisingly, the 
first one was the staple “diversity essay.” 

This year’s prompt started out by informing 

the applicants about how research has shown 
that diverse work groups are better at solving 
problems. They noted, however, that working in 
such groups can present considerable challenges 
to students who struggle to work with others from 
different backgrounds. The question then asked the 
applicants to write about an experience working in a 
diverse setting and specifically asked that the essay 
be focused around the challenges of working with 
differences. The final part of the prompt questioned 
the applicants to discuss in what ways one could 
improve on how productive and respectful they 
were to others of a different background. 

Though I was expecting at least one essay to 

prompt me about my background, this question was 
the most difficult one to write, taking me weeks of 
constant drafting and editing. I think it’s important 
for admissions committees to ask questions which 
allow students to vulnerably talk about their 
identities, but when it comes to this specific question, 
it seemed that the committee was only trying to 
see how white students have been able to interact 
in diverse settings. Instead of just asking about an 
experience in working in a diverse community, they 
asked about how the environment was challenging. 
After rereading the prompt over and over, I began 
to get angry. In what environment at the University 
have I had the opportunity to even work in a diverse 
setting? To me, this question asked, “How, as a 
person of color, have you faced challenges working in 
a diverse environment despite never being in one?” 
I’m almost always one of about three Latinx students 
in 300-person lectures, the only person of color in 

discussion sections and 
one of four brown students 
crossing the entire Diag, 
the center of the University. 
In all of my group projects 
and breakout rooms, I 
often find myself having to 
settle without having my 
ideas appreciated, being 
talked over and feeling 
stupid. I wish I had the 
opportunity to work in 
a diverse group setting 
so that I could finally be 
listened to, not doubted or 
ignored, but that is simply 
not the reality here at the 
University. 

I reflected on the final part of the aforementioned 

prompt: “Are there things you wish you had done 
differently or might do differently in the future 
to work more respectfully and productively with 
people who differ from you?” No, but this question 
caters to white students who trample the minority 
students at this school, creating a welcoming 
prompt for them to ease their way into. When 
talking to older friends in the Public Policy School 
who helped edit my essay, we all agreed that this 
prompt seemed to be purposefully phrased so 
that admissions would be able to see which white 
students were “woke” in appreciating diversity 
and understanding its importance. These students 
are obviously necessary for a holistically diverse 
environment, but the ease of being able to discuss 
working with people of different backgrounds 
provides advantages to white applicants over 
actual students who would contribute to a diverse 
cohort. I am a person of color who has solely been 
in majority-white environments, I could not think 
of a time where I faced a challenge working across 
differences, because I have rarely been presented 
with differences in my work environments. A 
challenge I have to constantly deal with is not 
being valued as a thinker and student within the 
classroom. It’s not my duty to respectfully and 
productively work with students who can’t see past 
my skin color.

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
4 — Wednesday, April 7, 2021 

The “diversity” question

HUGO QUINTANA

MiC Columnist

Seeing through myself

When do identity politics get harmful?

UDOKA NWANSI

MiC Columnist

MAYA MOKH
MiC Contributor

Design by Ahmad Kady

Design by Brianna Manzor

Read more at 
MichiganDaily.com

A challenge I have to 

constantly deal with is not 

being valued as a thinker 

and student within the 

classroom. It’s not my 

duty to respectfully and 

productively work with 

students who can’t see past 

my skin color.